


she'll see i'm not so tough

by worth_the_risk



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 80s Rom-Com Feel, F/M, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Many quick appearances by actual hockey players from the 70s 80s and 90s, Meet-Cute, Songfic, jack's here for like a blink or two but he's a fetus so it doesn't count, just turn on some Billy Joel and roll with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 05:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10455912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worth_the_risk/pseuds/worth_the_risk
Summary: “What’re you thinking about when you score, Rob?” The journalists pressed in around him were scribbling furiously. They’d just won their semi-final series against the Islanders. They were headed to the Stanley Cup Finals. He was headed for the Stanley Cup Finals.“What love at first sight might feel like.” He grinned cheekily, remembering.





	

**December 1975**

“You don’t seem to be having a very good time.”

Robert started a little at the voice, then started again when he turned to identify the source. The woman standing next to him was easily the most beautiful person he’d ever encountered in real life. Even with the apologetic expression on her face, her eyes were laughing, icy blue but warm as the sun. Her blonde hair was coiffed and pulled back into a soft bun. Curls were escaping near her ears and at her temples, probably tugged loose in an attempt to soften the knife-sharp lines of her cheekbones and jaw.

He shook his head a little before he spoke, both to confirm her theory and to clear his head. “No, I’m not really good at big crowds like this yet.”

“Yet?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, this is only my first season playing professionally.” He extended a hand to her. “Robert Zimmermann.”

She smiled and took it. “Alicia Graham. _It’s nice to meet you._ ”

He blinked at the excellent - if continental - accent. “ _You speak French?”_

“ _I lived in Paris for almost a year on my own, modeling. It was swim or drown. I noticed your accent, I thought maybe this would help the nerves a little.”_ She smiled and patted his arm.

“ _Well, now I’m not nervous about all these people anymore.”_ He bit his tongue before he let himself say it anyway. “ _Just nervous about impressing the incredibly kind and beautiful woman whose acquaintance I’ve been lucky enough to make tonight.”_

She raised her eyebrows. “ _Smooth, very smooth. So you’re just awkward in English then?”_ She laughed and he joined her, marveling at the music of it.

“ _So, we know why I’m here.”_ Robert lifted his drink to motion at the red and blue number retirement banner waving gently above them. “ _Why are you here?”_

 _“Networking. Looking for jobs closer to home,_ ” she shrugged. “ _Tired of being in Europe, and I want to go to college eventually. Lots of magazine editors here tonight, they all seemed to have season tickets. So here I am, wining and...well, actually just wining.”_ She giggled. “ _I’ve been distracted by a very handsome and quiet young man.”_ She made a face like she was scolding him.

“ _Well, don’t let me keep you from work,”_ he said. “ _Good luck?”_

“ _Thank you! And good luck to you,”_ she said, raising her glass in a toast. He clinked his against hers. “ _May you play well and get plenty of goals in your first season.”_ She moved to leave and paused, looking over her shoulder. “ _I’ll see you around, Robert?”_

 _“We can only hope so.”_ He smiled moonily and watched her walk away, her floor-length black dress swishing against the carpet.

***

So he played. And he scored. A lot. He set a new franchise record for rookie points and tied the existing one for rookie goals. Every time he felt himself getting worked up or nervous about underperforming, he remembered how easy it had felt to talk to Alicia and let that comfort bleed from his memory into his body, and the puck would find the net.

“What’re you thinking about when you score, Rob?” The journalists pressed in around him were scribbling furiously. They’d just won their semi-final series against the Islanders. They were headed to the Stanley Cup Finals. He was _headed for the Stanley Cup Finals._

“What love at first sight might feel like.” He grinned cheekily, remembering.

“Is that what hockey is for you? A love affair?”

“If it is, he’s getting a helluva lot more out of it than she is!” his linemate chirped. Robert balled up his towel and chucked it at him.

“I’m a thorough and attentive lover, thank you very much!”

***

They’d done it. After watching Andre Dupont do the fucking running man near the Canadiens’ goal more times than Robert had ever wanted to count, after getting decked in the face no less than three times, after losing a tooth and having his hair mussed into knots by the gloved hands of his teammates, they’d done it. He’d done it.

He was bundled up in someone’s arms as Yvan lifted the Cup above his head, and he watched the light glint icy blue off of bright silver over the shoulder that was pressing into his face. Everything slowed down and he took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and concentrated on his exact emotions in that moment. They needed to be preserved in case he never felt them again.

The freezing color of the glare off the Cup wove together into glimmering eyes in his mind and he shivered, shaking off the weird melancholy that came with the image and throwing himself back into the moment.

 

**1977**

The end of the next season was only slightly less stressful. The score margins were wider and that sense of impending terror about not living up to the hopes of his managers, parents, and teammates was absent. That didn’t mean that beating Boston didn’t feel like the world had started anew, though. The last goal of the series had been a wrister off his own stick, and his captain had hollered, grinning, across the scrum of manic victors, “Not half bad, Bob!” It stuck.

 

**1978**

After a summer of partying, Bob’s teammates dropped the ‘half’ and the media gleefully picked up the new moniker, polishing it and hanging it over each photo they published of him with a woman on one arm and a drink in the other hand. Bob didn’t mind. He did like to misbehave. As long as they weren’t lying about him, he didn’t care.

Riding high off the heady feeling of being three-for-three in seasons and Stanleys, the fall to the ground was that much farther when the call came through in October. He shook off the feeling of betrayal for a long few moments of fear. Quebec was _home._ He’d been all across the continent over the last three years, and never had he found a place he wanted to stay that wasn’t the place he’d been born and raised. Traveling was fun, as long as he knew he had his hearth to return to. Now that hearth was moving over six hundred miles south. To Pittsburgh, of all teams. Of all places.

“I’m sorry, Bob,” Irving mumbled over the phone. “It’s just business.”

“Business you couldn’t tell your star forward in person?” Bob spat, brushing off the moment of shame he felt for the unhumble jab. “Or, excuse me, not your player anymore. That’s right.” He huffed and shook his head, softening his voice a little before continuing. “I’ll call back later, I’m too pissed to talk logistics right now.”

He slammed the phone back onto the hook and took a few shaky breaths before picking it back up and dialing his parents’ number.

 

**November 1983**

“Alright, we’re back with Bob Zimmermann and Tommy Roulston, forwards for your Pittsburgh Penguins.”

Bob did not enjoy doing phone interviews. How do you know what kind of a conversation you’re having with someone if you can’t see their face and know how they’re reacting to you? It left too many chances for him to be accidentally rude. If he was going to be rude, he wanted to mean it.

“What kind of music are you two into?”

Only one song stuck out in Bob’s mind. He listened to Tom ramble on about Bob Seger's tour and waited his turn, grinning wryly to himself.

“I agree, Tom. Now, what about you, Bob?”

“I’m really into that Uptown Girl song by uh, by Billy Joel.” Just thinking about the lyrics made the wheels of his memory start turning.

“Ho, ho! Got an uptown girl of your own there, Bob, or are you just a fan of Joel’s?”

“Well, I met a girl a few years ago at a number retirement dinner and every time I hear that song all I can do is think about her.” Bob shrugged and blushed, forgetting for a moment that no one but Tom could see him.

“Aww, what a sap,” Tom teased. Bob shot him a dirty look.

“Well ladies, you heard it here first. Bad Bob Zimmermann’s got a sentimental heart. Who knows, Bob, maybe she’s listening in! Now, moving on to-”

Bob tuned the man’s showboating voice out. Maybe Alicia _was_ listening. Maybe he could actually find her, if he tried. But where would he start? Did she ever get to go to college, like she’d wanted? And if she did, where? They hadn't talked about that, and there were countless universities across the United States. It was probably hopeless.

 

**January 1984**

Bob hated the Bruins. He hated how they played, hated their home crowd, and their visiting locker room always smelled like someone had let food spoil beneath their stalls before he’d been there. One of the things he’d wholeheartedly embraced since his trade was the steep drop in times he stepped foot in Boston throughout the season. However, the inevitable came upon him as it must and he tried to make the best of it.

He unzipped his windbreaker as he stepped into the brightly lit pub, shaking the January chill off and looking around for an empty table. He had time to kill before he had to report and he’d brought a book with him, fully intending to spend his free hours sipping on a water and flipping through the pages.

He tucked himself into a booth and smiled up at the elderly waitress when she swept past.

“The usual, Bobby?” She grinned at him and knocked on the table.

“Thanks, Eileen.” He nestled himself back into the corner and opened the book to its dog-eared page. He barely noticed when the two glasses of ice water and grilled cheese were set down in front of him.

“Any good?” Eileen said, easing into the bench across the table from him.

Closing the book around his thumb and looking at the cover for a moment, he shook his head. “I have no idea what I’m reading,” he deadpanned.

She belly laughed, hands on her stomach, and he smiled at the old woman’s exuberance. “Phew boy, how I miss seeing you.”

“You’re the only good thing about coming to Boston, Eileen. I mean it.”

“Unless you win,” she admonished, leaning forward and giving him the stink eye before settling back in her seat and picking a fry off his plate. “It’s gonna be rowdy tonight. My sister – Annie, you remember me talking about her? The one that –”

“The one that owns the coffee shop at that university outside of the city, yeah.” Bob dug into his grilled cheese while Eileen continued to pilfer his fries like she always did.

“Right. Well, she told me that Samwell worked out some kind of ticket deal for their students and she said it seems like the whole campus is planning on showing up for the game.” She shook her head. “It’s gonna be loud. Especially if they end up near a big bunch of Harvard kids.”

“Big rivalry?” Bob raised an eyebrow.

“Well, Samwell’s hockey program is only sixteen years old, and Harvard’s - well, Harvard’s Harvard. But they somehow managed to knock Harvard out of the playoffs a few years back when they thought they had it clinched and,” she punched her own palm, “you know how it is.”

“Eh, it probably won’t be that bad.” He popped the last bite of the grilled cheese into his mouth and settled back into his seat.

***

It was that bad. The combination of the Penguins and Bruins tension and the Harvard and Samwell rivalry lit some kind of fire under the collective ass of the attendees, and seven separate fights resulted in six arrests by the end of the night. Bob was impressed, to tell the truth.

There had been a woman sitting just beyond the glass wearing an ostentatious bobbly Samwell hat and a Pens jersey. On the second or third pass he made by during warmups, she was turned around and arguing animatedly with a man in a Harvard sweatshirt, and he smiled to himself when he noticed that she was wearing a replica of his own jersey.

The game was almost as chippy as the crowd. It seemed like every time the Pens started getting decent looks, the Bruins would tighten their defense, bear down on their passing and start making nasty interceptions. They started timing their line changes so that every time Bob’s line hit the ice, so did their second line - and their famously well-checking rookie center. Kasper kept running Bob down, tripping him, hooking him, slashing at his hands, almost none of it getting called.

With about five minutes left in the second frame and a one-point lead, Bob tossed his gloves and gave in to Kasper’s game-long bullshit.

“C’mere, you little son of a bitch,” he called. “Try and impress me.”

Kasper lunged at him and Bob dug in his heel, spinning around the smaller man and landing a hard hit to his nose as he passed. The blond wiped the back of his hand across his face, grimacing through the blood at him.

The linesmen descended on them, but Bob wasn’t done. He danced forward, landing a pair of quick jabs directly to the rookie’s nose, and taking one to his own eye.

“Let’s go, dipshit,” the larger liney laughed, shaking his head and grabbing Kasper by the sweater. Bob let the referee push him away towards the penalty box, looking up at the crowd and waving regally at the people jeering at him. He grinned when he noticed they’d be skating back by the pretty fan in his jersey from earlier. Fully prepared to wink and blow her a kiss, he stumbled when he found her in the crowd.

She was facing front and fidgeting with her long blonde braid. The woman seated next to her – her friend, he assumed, by how comfortably they were notched together – was chatting animatedly into her ear, but she wasn’t paying much attention. Her eyes were locked on his, bright blue and achingly familiar.

“Holy shit.” He slowed, and the linesman pressed more firmly on his back to keep him moving.

She waved, smiling tentatively at him. Her friend immediately noticed, looked out at Bob, then back at her, and proceeded to start shouting. He waved back, dazed.

Plopping down on the bench in the box, he sat stunned for a moment before shaking his head and picking up a water bottle. He took a long drink and leaned forward, looking down the row of seats to where she sat, looking right back at him. He waved again and she waved back, laughing.

“Ice pack?”

“What?”

“Do you want an ice pack, dumbass?” The trainer in the box shoved the pack into his line of sight. “You’re gonna have a black eye either way.”

Bob sat back and blinked up at the trainer, still distracted. “Yeah, uh. Sure.”

 

**March 1984**

There was no way in hell he was getting up with his first alarm this morning. He’d be rolling over, resetting it to go off in forty-five minutes, and marveling at his own unending luck. It hadn’t even gone off yet, and he was already lying there, very very aware of the form lying next to him, breathing evenly and quietly.

Somehow even her breathing was entrancing. He lost himself watching the rise and fall of it along her shoulders, his sleepy gaze tracing down to where the long line of her bare spine disappeared into his sheets, and jumped when the alarm buzzed out in the quiet bedroom. He rolled over and hit snooze, then reset it for an hour later. No run, no shower. He didn’t want to leave his bed.

“D’you have to get up now?”

He looked back over his shoulder. She’d rolled over while he’d been messing with the clock, and she hadn’t bothered to pull the sheets up over herself. His eyes wandered before he could get his manners in order and she blushed across her nose and down her neck.

“Not just yet. I won’t die if I don’t get my morning run in.”

She smiled, and something settled, heavy and serious, in his stomach. “Good.”

***

“I am not late! I am not late! I am not late!” he hollered out ahead of himself as he sprinted his way out onto the ice, skates in one hand and stick in the other. The rest of the team were already huddled up in front of the coaching staff, and a few snorted and chuckled into their gloves.

Coach Berry checked his watch and looked back up at Bob, unamused. “If you’da been thirteen seconds later, you would’ve been. Get with your teammates, Bob.”

“Yessir.” He slid his way over to the group of men and fell onto his ass, tugging his skates on.

“Hey,” Mark murmured and leaned down next to him. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

Bob pretended to scratch at his neck and pulled his practice jersey down out of the way to show the top edge of the love bite on his collarbone before releasing it. “Late night after the game.”

Mark’s eyes lit up and he waggled his eyebrows. “Oh man, who was it?”

“A young lady by the name of Nunya Business, Marky.” Bob smirked.

“You are the king of kiss and tell, Bobby, c’mon,” Mark elbowed him. “Don’t hold out on your old pal Marky.”

“Not this time.”

Mark’s eyes widened. “Whoa there, Bobert. Getting serious are we?”

“It’s been serious, Mark.” Bob finished tying his skate and looked up at his teammate.

“But, I thought-”

“It’s _her._ ”

Mark thought for a few seconds. “You mean the _one_? From your rookie season?”

He nodded, a grin creeping across his face entirely of its own accord. “It’s her.”

“Aww man.” Mark groaned. “Now you’re gonna get all cryptic and shit.”

“Maybe if you could land a date you wouldn’t be so damn desperate for details about mine.”

Coach Berry blew his whistle and pointed at the far end of the rink.

Mark pressed a gloved hand to his chest as he skated away. “Low blow, Bob! Low blow!” As they lined up against the boards, Mark leaned over and rested his elbow on Bob’s shoulder. “This mean I can have all those phone numbers you’ve been hoarding over the years?”

“They gave them to me, Mark, not you,” Bob laughed. “What kind of asshole do you think I am?”

“The charitable kind!”

Bob grinned and shook his head, sprinting off down the rink as the whistle sounded.

 

**November 1985**

The hotel phone rang and Bob jerked awake, reluctantly rolled over, and tugged the receiver off the hook. “Mmn..hello?”

“Hey, baby,” Alicia said. He smiled sleepily into the pillow. “This is your pregame wake-up call!”

“Hi, n’amour.” He yawned and absentmindedly petted the untouched pillow beside him, stomach aching a little. “I miss you.”

She sighed. “It’s been two days.”

They’d been together the entire summer. She’d moved into his apartment the week after the regular season had ended, repainting each room and refinishing the old wood floors to keep him distracted through the Penguins’ fourth straight missed playoff run. After the apartment was spic and span, they’d tried new restaurants, worked out together, gone to concerts. He’d flown out with her to LA on a shoot and they’d spent a week on the beach in between appointments, her tanning and him burning to a crisp. When preseason had started up and he got his schedule, a little seed of discontent had planted itself in his stomach as he considered the time he’d be out of Pittsburgh. What before had seemed like a year long road trip with his best friends now looked a little duller, a little less enjoyable.

“You should just come with me next time.”

“I’ve got work, too, you know that.”

He groaned into the phone. “I feel like such a brat over this. I’m so used to having you with me now.”

“This is going to be our life, Bob.”

His eyes brightened at that. “Our life?”

She laughed, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “Mhm.”

“We should formalize that sometime.” He sat up and stretched, enjoying the stunned silence over the line.

“ _Bobby._ ”

“ _Allie.”_

“I’ll kick your ass when you get home for that.”

“Hmm, I can’t wait.”

 

**December 1989**

The clock chimed midnight.

“Merry Christmas, honey.” Alicia curled into his side and took the last sip of her cocoa, tapping her fingernails against the ceramic.

“Merry Christmas, love.” He rested his head on top of hers, tilting his face down to kiss her hair.

“I’ve got, um. I’ve got an early gift for you?” Her voice shook.

“Oh?” He yawned. “And what’s that?” He leaned away so that she could get up to get whatever it was, but she only leaned forward to set her mug on the floor. She pulled him back close, looking carefully at his face. There were tears in her eyes. “No, don’t cry. Alicia, what’s wrong?” He cupped her face in his hands and peppered kisses across her eyelashes.

“Nothing, nothing,” she smiled and laughed softly, batting him away. “Nothing’s wrong.” She leaned back and took a deep breath. “Oh, wow. I didn’t think it would be this hard to actually say it.” She locked eyes with him again and froze for a moment before shaking her head and grinning. “Well, I feel sort of bad. I’m going to tell you about it now, but it’s not going to get here for a few more months.”

“That’s fine, love, you didn’t have to get me anything in the first place.” He kissed her softly.

She shook her head and laughed. “It’ll be about eight months until you actually get it.”

“Oh, well-” He froze, his eyes flickering from her face to her lap. “Alicia?”

Her tears finally spilling over, she managed, “Yes, Bobby?”

“Are you- are we-?” He pressed a hand to the warm fabric just below her bellybutton, and she covered it with both of hers.

“Yeah, we are.” She giggled through the tears. “Merry Christmas.”

 

**October 1990**

“I don’t know, man,” Bob said, organizing the equipment in his stall. “Just feels like it’s going to be a good season.” He taped a picture of Alicia cradling a bundled-up Jack to the inside wall and smiled. “Something’s coming, I can feel it.”

“What, in those old bones of yours?”

“Mario, I swear to shit.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic was born from three presumptions:  
> \- Uptown Girl as a whole premise just screams Bob Zimmermann mooning over Alicia.  
> \- The Zimmermann men are hopelessly devoted once they’ve lit a candle for someone.  
> \- I would be able to write it quickly and get the image of Bob hearing Uptown Girl on the radio and feeling his lil' heart a-flutter out of my head.  
> Presumption three was the falsest bullshit lie I have ever told myself. I started on this in NOVEMBER. But, now we are here and I am free from the fetters. Well, freer. I still get all emotional over these two whenever Billy Joel comes on.
> 
> Dedicated to Ashley! Thanks for reading over this and freaking out over our shared paddleboat of a ship with me. 
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr! - I'm thedarkirishsilence.


End file.
